


On Hong Kong Protest 2

by Highwind96



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Hong Kong, Protests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highwind96/pseuds/Highwind96
Summary: A journalist met a boy among the protesters.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	On Hong Kong Protest 2

Three gunshots rang in the air, a man dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach. The protesters scattered in all directions, and I saw a small boy walking among the crowd, ten years old at most. He was looking around, not sure where to go next, and whom to follow. I waved at him. He looked at me curiously and cocked his head, a shade of childishness still in his eyes. I gave him an encouraging nod and tried to pull the corner of my mouth into a smile. At the same time, I swallowed a wave of nausea that had threatened to engulf me.

I had won the boy’s trust and he started to walk towards me. I crouched down and showed him my microphone, “I’m a journalist,” I said. The boy stopped two metres away from me and I waited patiently. “Show me your identification,” he demanded. I couldn’t say that I wasn’t surprised at the request, but I had nothing to fear. Slowly, I fished out the ID in my pocket and presented it to him, “I’m not from the State,” I added. He gave it a thorough examination to the best of his ability, his face tensing and serious. When he was satisfied, he took another step forwards, and finally, we were within talking distance.

Up until now I did not have a change to take in his whole person. The look was sad and tired, and there was in those eyes, now I saw it, fear, and something even more powerful yet indescribable. Poor boy, he must have witnessed the gunshots, I told myself. Deep down, I wanted to believe that this was the worst the boy could have ever seen, but behind every sad story, there was always a sadder story.

It turned out that the boy’s mother was pro-China, and the boy had sneaked out to the streets while his mother was taking a nap. He joined the group of men in black nearest to him. Walking with his head held high, for the first time in his life, he had tasted the sweetness of hard-won freedom, up until the moment he witnessed what had transpired earlier. Lying in a pool of his own blood, the man had been struggling with the policeman. The boy was speechless as he watched the incident unfold before him. Right before the man lost his consciousness, his eyes looked into the boy’s and the boy was frozen to the spot. What he had long believed to be freedom was nothing but a blatant lie. But of course, while he could feel all these complicated emotions, he was not able to put them into words. 

“I don’t, I don’t know how to say it, I mean, how can it possibly… It was a living man. I’m sad, I feel that I’m in pain, but…” 

His voice was of a child’s, but the tone was not of his age. I looked at him and said nothing, hoping that he would take it as a signal to go on. The boy took in a shuddering breath, and I got a feeling that it was going to be too much for him. Deciding to help continue the conversation, I asked him then.

“Seeing what had happened today, would you continue your protest?”

“Yes, I insist.” The voice was not loud, but it was firm.

“Could you tell us why?”

The boy raised a hand to his heart, “because it’s in our conscience. It’s our conscience, our conscience…”

But then his face fell as the voice trailed off. There was too much he wanted to say, too much he hoped to let us know, yet he did not know how. I bit into my bottom lip, regretting that I had started such a heavy talk with the boy. The boy did not know, but I could see that in his tiny body a raging soul was about to break free; it was questioning the world with all the strength the body could muster, but in a voice that nobody could hear. Betrayal cut deep into it and the sorrow and hurt tore the boy apart as he began to cry.

“I will not be used” was what the boy kept repeating even after I had switched off the microphone some time. Wordlessly, I could only watch him cry. The tears ran freely upon his youthful cheeks as his shoulders trembled. Between breathless sobs he took in mouthful of air still filled with the fumes left by the guns. I let him go at last. As a story, it was more than enough for the world to know. As life, it was more than enough for the boy to take, for how could a child’s body harbour a soul that had matured into something even more sublime in a mother’s nap’s time?


End file.
